


off to the races

by alisdas



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angry Hux, Choking, Creampie, Dom/sub, F/M, Fluff, Smut, Sugar Daddy, alternate universe - arms dealers, hux chokes you with your diamond necklace uwu, i guess, rich people stuff, shouting, skskksksks, um jealousy, um kylo ren lowkey wants you but thats a story for another day, very rough smut btw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 09:49:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19990129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisdas/pseuds/alisdas
Summary: Armitage Hux is one of many arms dealers for the First Order. Cool and collected, never a hair out of place. That is, of course, until Tall, Dark & Handsome by the bar tries his luck with you.





	off to the races

"For good luck."

He holds an Argorian die – a clunky, large thing that takes up one whole of even his gigantic hands to hold. The rest of the crowded table cheer and chatter between themselves, bending forward to watch; bets placed and bets won and money, money, money.

You press your lips to the die, and those cold green eyes deepen into something much more volatile – something brought on by the alcohol, or the low, crooning music, or the money... Or maybe, the shade of red painted on your lips, the dress that seemed to be spun from threads of gold itself. 

"Thank you, darling."

He throws the die blindly. His eyes should be on the rolling die that decides if he wins 70,000 credits or loses 10,000 – but he's much more interested in the spot where your shoulder and neck meets. 

_There should be purple there_ , he thinks. Red, purple, blue blotches that look like the supernovas you had travelled through just cycles ago. A sign of the fact that he had ravished you just a few hours before – dress bunched up against your waist and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A sign of the fact that you were _his_ – though he doesn't think that there's anyone even _here_ that's stupid enough to try and say otherwise. 

You had covered those bruises up. He remembers laying back in bed, cigar to his lips and blankets rumpled as you sat and pressed powders to your skin. He had watched, an argument on the tip of his tongue, but then you had said something _far_ too adorable – about the races, if he remembers correctly – and he'd been distracted. 

He'll simply have to give you more tonight – and make sure you don't cover them up this time. 

The crowd erupts into cheers. He's won more money. He smirks, but he doesn't care. He has enough credits as it is – but it's the high of winning that he likes about this place, the teetering between loss and victory that gets him riled up. He wins every time, of course. But it's the build up that matters. 

"Another?" The non-human tending to the table croons, casting buggy green eyes around the table. It waves the die towards him, taking in the winnings he had already accumulated and the crowd that had come with it. "Another, sir?" 

You see him consider it. But then–

"Armie," you say softly, resting your head on his shoulder with a pout. "C'mon, you promised."

And that does it, of course. The pout and the big eyes and the fluttering lashes – the soft, innocent voice and the way you hug his arm sweetly. He's always been a cold, hard man – blood and blasters and credits. But there's something about the pretty things that you know makes him weak at the knees – and you just happen to be the prettiest of all. 

Armitage raises a single hand, and that's enough. The crowd that had been anticipating another match deflate – but they're quickly preoccupied with another trigger-happy rich man with money to burn. Armitage backs away from the table with you on his arm, nodding towards his winnings at a passing waiter. "Take care of that for me."

The waiter doesn't need to ask his name. He sees the shock of red upon his head and knows that this is Armitage Hux – powerful, rich. A supplier of arms to the First Order. _Dangerous_. 

You stroll leisurely past games of poker and sakresh, eyes trailing back and forth. It's hard to focus your attention on any one thing here, with all the glitz and glam and bright lights – and you suppose that's the point, because more things to do means more credits spent.

He readjusts you, moves so that his arm winds around your waist and his hand lays flat against the edge of your stomach – and you can't help but giggle, the blush of expensive champagne finally making itself known as you nuzzle your nose against his neck. 

"We should go back to our room," you murmur, exhaling pleasantly.

"I promised I'd take you to the races," he says, sighing in that teasing way. He glances down at you, grinning. "What? You can't wait?" 

"You know what Coruscanti champagne does to me–" 

"Mr. Armitage Hux." The man who interrupts is graying and short. His lips are pursed as if the only thing he can smell is fathier shite – and when he looks at you, he looks _long_ , eyes lingering on the swell of your breasts and the stretch of your neck. When you glance up at Armitage, his lip is curled and he's got that look in his eye – like the man in front of him isn't worthy to lick his boots. 

"Lieutenant Klone," he speaks shortly, and you sigh. So much for _no business_ – and that _is_ what this is, because Armitage has no dealings with the First Order outside of business. 

Klone's eyes drift back to Armie slowly, as if the red-head wasn't quite literally staring daggers into his face – as disgustingly unashamed in his ogling as Klone is, you must commend him on his confidence, as stupid as it may be. You've never seen a man so fearlessly look you up and down while you hang on your Armitage's arm. 

"Is there something you need?" Armitage asks – borderline sneers, really, but he calms just the tiniest bit when you lean your head back on to his shoulder. 

"There seems to be a slight problem with your latest shipment," Klone responds. His eyes shoot back to you. "I'm sure there's somewhere more… _private_ where we can discuss these matters?" 

Armitage hesitates for a second. (" _No work, darling, I promise you._ " In hindsight, you should have known better.) You're rolling your eyes anyway as you unwind yourself from him, brushing away a strand of hair from your eyes. 

"Yes, I know," you say, huffing. "I'll be at the bar, then."

"It'll only be a moment, I'm sure," Armitage calls after you. It sounds like more of a threat towards Klone rather than a reassurance. Both, perhaps? 

So you go, cutting through the crowds like water to reach the bar across the room – you only glance backwards once, to find Armitage has already disappeared into a nearby room with that stuffy, disrespectful officer. It's with a sigh that you drop into the nearest chair, signalling the nearest bartender towards you. 

"Wine, please," you order, rubbing at your temple. "Hosnian, if you've got it."

And of course, they do. The wine is a deep plum colour, tart like fresh berries and slightly bitter. Crisp. _Expensive_. It tastes like liquid luxury. 

Only the best for the people essentially funding the war against the rebels. You look over your shoulder again at the jovial people spending like their lives depend on it; it's hard to believe that a quick jump to hyperspace would bring you to a battlefield. You swirl your wine thoughtfully and turn back towards the bar, when… 

"What type of man leaves a woman such as yourself alone?" 

The man who speaks is handsome, you'll admit. He's got the whole _darkness_ thing going for him; tall and broad, dark hair and eyes… All black clothing. A few years ago you would have entertained the idea of him – now, though… 

"The important kind," you say, barely sparing a glance at him. "The very easily angered kind."

He hums, but he doesn't heed your badly veiled warning and his eyes don't move. You can feel them burning holes into your side profile, and you decide that you don't quite _like_ being burned. You take a frustrated sip of your wine – a _gulp_ , rather –, before turning to him. 

"Can I help you with something?" 

For a moment he doesn't say anything; simply nurses the drink you didn't notice he had and stares at you like he can _read_ you. 

"You're beautiful."

"I _know_ ," you reply, annoyed. 

"Necklace is beautiful, too," he says, nodding towards the thick band of jewels sitting on your collar bones. 

"Is that what you want? The necklace?" You ask, visibly unimpressed. 

"Is it that hard to believe that I'm complimenting you?" He asks. He's not annoyed, though, no. If anything, he seems to think your responses are _funny_. 

"No," you say. "It's not. I'm just quite sure that I've made it clear that I'm uninterested."

"Everyone's uninterested until they are," he says. His eyes don't stray from yours – and you can't shake that feeling, like he can _see_ you. Like he has opened you up and laid you bare to study. 

You don't know how to respond to that. You look at him through narrowed eyes instead, tilting your glass back and forth thoughtfully. "There are many willing women here to entertain yourself with. Why pick the one who's the least likely to give you something, hm?" 

He shrugs. 

"You enjoy having to work for what you want," you assume. "Even your women."

His smile widens. "Something like that." 

You roll your eyes, take another sip. You're getting bored, and the races aren't due to start for a long time. Where is your knight in shining greatcoat when you need him? 

You're just in time, actually – you glance over your shoulder for the millionth time, but this time Armitage is striding back over towards you. He does _not_ look pleased in any sense of the word – in fact, you'd say he's bordering on _furious_. 

"Kylo Ren," he spits out, coming to a stop. The man beside you stands, a shit-eating grin upon his face, and you can't stop the surprise that blooms on your face.

"You know each other?" You ask, looking between them. "How curious."

"Unfortunately," Armitage says stiffly, inhaling deeply. "What are you doing here, _Ren_?"

(He says his name so dirtily that you're readily taken aback when Ren doesn't even _react_ to it. Just how long have they known each other for?) 

"Talking to a beautiful woman," Ren says, tipping his glass towards you. 

" _My_ beautiful woman," Armitage corrects, his voice hard. The tips of his ears are reddening in anger already. This Kylo Ren must be as annoying to Armitage as he is to you – even more so, maybe. 

"Really?" Ren continues smoothly, sipping at his whiskey. "I don't see a ring on her finger."

And Armitage _splutters_. His fists clench at his sides, his nose wrinkling in utter disbelief – and you know he's going to explode if you don't do something. 

So you stand and down the rest of your wine, stretching languorously. You saunter to his side and take one hand in yours, place another on his shoulder. A kiss under his ear, a kiss on his jaw. 

"I'm bored, Armie," you say – soft enough to be considered sultry, loud enough for Kylo Ren to hear everything you say. "Take me to our room?" 

(Kylo's eyebrow twitches, and he glances down at his drink. Your smile widens.)

Armie's breathing is still heavy, limbs shaking with barely restrained fury – but he relents, tearing his eyes from his instigator to look at you. There's this look in his eyes that you _know_ shouldn't excite you but it _does_ – something dark and unpredictable and _angry_. You restrain a shiver. 

"Of course, darling," he says lowly. Then, he shoots the fakest smile you've ever had the pleasure of seeing towards Kylo Ren. "My apologies, Ren. It seems I'm needed elsewhere."

A glint of jealousy is alight in Kylo Ren's eyes. You don't think he's used to not getting his way, and it shows in the equally as plastic smile he sends back. He doesn't say goodbye – simply lifts his glass in farewell as Armitage guides you away with a hand on the small of your back. You feel his eyes on you all the way until you disappear into the night. 

It's not far to your room – or, apartment is more accurate – but it feels like forever. You're buzzing with energy, feeding off the irritation that still radiates from your partner. You want to quell his annoyance, help him brush off his anger, and you know the perfect way to do it. 

A five minute walk through the picturesque, hazily lit streets of Canto Bight bring you to your door – dark wood and impossibly varnished, the room number glinting gold as Armitage swipes a card over the reader. 

It's large and sleek and modern, just like he likes it. A sunken open plan living room and wet bar, a fully stocked kitchen, a floor-to-ceiling window that showcased the beautiful sea and night sky of Canto Bight. To the right, a hallway that led to the bedroom and bathroom. 

And the bedroom, _stars above_ . You'd come here for the bed alone. It's just as big as the one you've got at home – if not bigger – and there's something about having a tumble in those sheets that make you feel like you're fucking on luxury. Armie says it feels like that just because he's paid for it, and _'maybe I should have my way with you on a bed of credits, hm?'_

He makes a beeline for the wet bar as soon as you step inside. You hear the dull pop of a decanter being opened as you slip off your shoes and remove the bracelets from your arms. As you fully enter the living room you see he's already finished a glass of whiskey and is readily pouring himself another. 

"You never told me about him," you say, slipping onto the couch. "Ren."

He laughs humorlessly. "Is he the kind of man you'd like me to tell you about?" 

"Touché," you say, quirking a brow. You watch as he tops up his drink and percolates slowly until he's standing in front of you. You part your legs slightly, and he takes the hint to stand between them. 

"What did he want anyway, hm?" 

You shrug, peering up at him. "He one-lined me. Told me I was beautiful – that my necklace was beautiful, too." 

He lets out a disgusted scoff. "Of course. He's always been like that. Cheap, reused lines… He's always wanted what I have."

He places his glass on the coffee table behind him and grasps your jaw. His fingers are so warm, slightly calloused, and you revel in the drag of them against your skin as he tilts your head back. 

"And I do have you," he assures you – as if you don't know already. "You _are_ mine."

"I know, Armie," you say softly, sighing as his thumb drags against your bottom lip. He stares at you thoughtfully, eyes drifting over your face as if imprinting the image of you in his brain. 

"He doesn't," he says, voice suddenly a hiss. His eyes harden, and he takes a step back. He picks up his glass again. Another gulp, and he waves a finger at you. "Dress off."

You don't waste any time, rising to your feet and working on the water-like slip of a dress you had put on earlier. You know how he gets in these moods – he wants every order followed to the very last detail, and you don't often find yourself _wanting_ to be punished. His rewards are much sweeter. 

Your dress pools around your feet, a pile of gold and sumptuous silk, and you raise your hands to your neck to unclasp the thick band of diamonds when–

"No," he says sharply, taking a seat. "Leave that on. Come here, pet."

When you step between his legs, his hands begin trail up and down your back slowly. It's such a stark contrast to the way he looks at you, trailing fire up and down your naked chest. He's teasing you, you know he is – each kiss to your breast too fleeting, each nip and bite few and far between, but _rough_. You have half a mind to simply kiss him and move things along, and he seems to understand that. 

He hooks a finger underneath your necklace and yanks you down towards him until you're straddling him, face to face. "How much is too much, hm?" 

"What do you mean?" You ask, unsurprised to find that you're already breathless. 

"How much will I have to mark you until even _Ren_ calls it overkill?" 

His lips spread in a devilish smirk against your collarbone. 

"He strikes me as the type to enjoy them," you quip. "Though, you should expect a tantrum, if he's as bad as you say he is."

Armie scoffs, fingers scraping your lower back languidly. "He acts out whenever anything doesn't go his way, as children are wont to do."

His fingers dig into your flesh at the thought. The pain is nice, you think. You want there to be marks when he's done with you. Bruises. You don't think it'll be too hard; he seems to have an unending supply of anger towards Kylo Ren. 

You bow your head to the crook of his neck. "C'mon, Armie. Take me."

"You have a lot of impatience, pet," he says steadily, tugging sharply at your hair. When you gasp in pain his eyes widen in faux-surprise. "Oh! You can't take it? Here I thought you were begging me to take you. I don't think you'll be able to handle it."

He pinches a nipple sharply, and you restrain a groan. He's always known how to navigate the line between pain and pleasure and now is no different. 

"I can always handle it," you breathe. "Even after that night on Coruscant–"

Left unable to walk and bruised six ways to Sunday, but sated and satisfied. He hums comically, bowing his head to the valley of your breasts– "If I remember correctly, you blacked out."

"I did," you admit, moaning softly as he begins to rock your hips against his. "But I didn't die, did I?" 

Warmth begins to come to fruition in your abdomen; buzzing with electricity and energy and pure _want_. You know you're wet – can feel how your panties slide back and forth wetly as you grind down against him, and it's all you can do to not push him back and simply mount him. 

(Do _not_ try it. Control is one thing he is rarely willing to relinquish.)

"Please," you whisper, bending your forehead to his shoulder. "Just – I can't wait anymore, Armie."

And again – it's the helplessness in your voice, the desperation, the pouting bottom lip and begging eyes that do it. The picture of chastity rutting herself against his crotch like a bitch in heat. 

"I don't know," he murmurs, "Are you sure you wouldn't rather Ren? Hm?" 

But he's undoing the zipper of his slacks and pulling himself free, running a thumb over the swollen head of his cock in a way that makes you lick your lips. You'd get on your knees and take him in your mouth if you weren't so damn–

"Oh," you whimper. "Oh, maker–" 

It's such a delicious, delicious burn; a stretch that promises pleasure and leaves heat in its wake. You barely acknowledge the rub of your lace panties against your thigh as they're pushed haphazardly to the side. You're more focused on how right it feels to finally have him inside of you – hot and throbbing and _hard–_

"Answer me," he growls, grasping your necklace hard again. It's tight around your throat, just tight enough to leave you short of breath. "Answer me, and I'll take care of you."

"Never him," you gasp. Your hands clamp onto his wrists, but he only uses it to pull you closer. Sloppy kisses are pressed to your lips, one after the other, and for a moment you forget what it is you're supposed to be answering. "N–not Kylo Ren."

"That's what I like to hear," he purrs. And then he finally releases the necklace – save for one finger, which he uses to tug you towards him whenever he wants a kiss – and begins to guide you into a steady rhythm that easily steals the breath from your lungs. "Again."

"Only – only you."

"Again."

(His hips begin to move in tandem.)

"Ngh – only you – _ah_ –!" 

" _Again_!" 

(A thumb against your clit.)

You can't form words for a good few seconds. You're sobbing, bouncing in his lap at this point, anchored to him only by the necklace still in his hands – but he doesn't care that you've been momentarily rendered illiterate, because he's just as far gone as you are. 

"Not Kylo Ren," he hisses, jaw set and grip as hard as steel. You feel that pleasurable, hazy cloud form above you as the necklace tightens around your throat – the build up in your stomach only intensified by the lack of air. " _Me_." 

"Only you," you gasp out, voice thin. "Only – _maker_ , Armie–!" 

He releases the necklace at just the right time – or, rather, the necklace snaps at the right time. Diamonds go flying through the air as sweet, sweet oxygen fills your lungs, and the sudden rush has you tipping over that delectable edge that you'd been teetering over for what feels like forever. 

Through your orgasmic bliss you lift your head, blinking open your tired eyes. You're almost sent hurtling into another one at the sight of your Armie – so usually put together, prim and proper. You have reduced him to a gaping mess, his brow furrowed and sweat lining his hairline. A pretty blush has settled itself on his pale cheeks – and when he sees you watching, when that forest green finally meets your own eyes, he lets out one last grunt, thrusting his hips against you. 

Warmth fills you from the inside out – literally. You can feel him filling you up; feel the bruises on your neck and the slight pain in your nipples. Claimed in such a raw, carnal way that even Kylo Ren couldn't deny that you belonged to Armitage Hux. 

With one last shudder you lean your head forward, pressing your sweaty skin against the cool cushions, gasping like you're stranded on Jakku without water. He's much more restrained than you are – always has been, always will – and he pulls out of you with only one last shuddering pant. He lays back and winds an arm around you, his face the image of peace. 

_The duality of man, truly_ , you think dryly, but you don't resist. You rest your head on his chest, eyes fluttering shut… 

"Armie!" You gasp suddenly, sitting up. "We'll miss the races!" 

He gives a short laugh, tugging you down again. "I'll buy you your own fathier, darling."


End file.
